My snogging spat with Boris

I have not given up on my Build Back Boris campaign, which is the most pressing concern facing the UK. Once a beloved national monument like Nelson’s Column, this formerly majestic edifice has been chipped away by wokery in all its destructive forms, led by the country’s leading demolition expert, Carrie Symonds. It will cost millions and take years to rebuild him, but donors such as my friends William Shawcross and the historian Andrew Roberts have pledged their assistance and expertise. In the past few weeks, however, there has been serious subsidence, and a potentially catastrophic leaning to the south, like the Tower of Pisa. By the south I mean the London elites and scientific advisers who believe a Covid variant with milder symptoms is an excuse to prevent us from having a good time. Boris still retains his listed status, but only just.

This year, I have taken to giving parties and have flown into irrational rages at people who fail to RSVP. It’s not that I particularly desire their presence and I would be quite mollified if they pleaded another engagement. It’s just that their failure to respond at all instils me with terrible self-doubt. And it reminds me guiltily of all the past occasions when I too failed to RSVP. Now I have become, as Matthew Parris wrote over-generously, ‘a hostess’, I feel compelled to make a retrospective general apology to anyone I ever failed to reply to.

Perhaps it is Boris’s classical learning that prompted his generous approach to soirées in government establishments last Christmas: an indubitably miserable time when the urge to merge with the splurge must have been paramount. Quiz parties, cheese and wine parties, leaving parties, arriving parties, a seething, teeming mass of what now seems insanity.